


Visiting Hours

by timedidreverse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timedidreverse/pseuds/timedidreverse
Summary: Will receives an unexpected visitor in the hospital. Immediately follows season 2 finale.





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> This is not new, but actually the first story I wrote for the Hannibal fandom several years ago under another account. I have reviewed and lightly modified the content and grammar before uploading here.

_Once, when he is 9 years old, Will goes with his father to the butcher._

_The family has gone down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, ostensibly to visit Daddy’s sister that lives there. Even at his young age, though, Will knows that Daddy was drawn to the city more for all the liquor and prostitutes he would fine there Will thinks on this while the two wander the French Quarter._

_Will dutifully trudges alongside his Daddy, through the crowded streets and back alleyways, until they come to Robichaud’s, reputed to be one of the finest butchers in the city (at least Tante Giselle says so.)_

_Will stands idly by while Daddy and Mr. Robichaud make small talk, slipping his hands into his jean pockets. It is the only pair of jeans he owns. He loves the soft feel of the denim against his legs, and loves the color, a similar blue-grey that just matched Mama’s eyes._

_It doesn’t take long for him to get bored. Will is a bright child, but distractible._

_His mind is always racing, always on overdrive, and he constantly peppers adults with questions. He wants to know how things work, and he wants to know badly._

_Daddy’s whippings only quiet him for a while, so he is whipped again and again without ever ‘getting it.’ As exasperating as he is, as much of an ‘awkward, antisocial little shit,’ even Daddy can’t argue with the neat column of A’s on his report cards. His teacher writes that he is ‘a sweet boy, extremely intelligent and gifted, but a bit of a loner. . .’_

_Will doesn’t realize he is daydreaming until he feels Daddy’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on, boy. We’re goin’ to the back to get some beef.” His hold on Will’s shoulder is rough, painfully so, but Will knows better than to complain._

_He follows Daddy and Mr. Robichaud around the counter, into the chilly backroom. It is cold and dark, and there’s a terrible smell. And the sound - he will never forget the sound. Worse than anything is the sight: the pink and white flesh, the stomach flayed open, the entrails dangling in front of him, slick black blood. . ._

Will wakes with a shake and a gasp, not quite remembering where he is. The swift agony mauls him, brutally reminds him of what exactly he’s gotten himself into. His hand is pressed tight against his stomach, and he feels - _God, he does not want to know what that is!_ Maybe his hand is the only thing keeping his intestines inside, and he will die as soon as he moves it.

He _will_ die - of that, he is certain. It is only a matter of time. Will thinks perhaps an hour or less, depending on how long it takes the ambulance to come. ( _Surely, the thinks, surely they will come soon!_ ) They will come - they will come for Alana, for Jack, for . . .

“Oh my G-God, Abigail!” Will feels a twinge of pain even as he shifts his eyes toward her frozen frame. She is not moving, not _breathing_. _”Oh my God!”_ Will clenches his eyes shut and bites his lip, so hard that he bites through. He does not bother to stifle his sobs, and they wrack his body. He shivers so much that he begins to convulse. He knows that he needs to calm down, or he will die right here on the floor, like an animal. _Like Abigail._

_”You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes, and wade into the quiet of the stream.”_

“No!” he sputters. “No. . .” _And why not?_ He can’t remember. Surely there must be someone to hold on for, some reason to struggle. But then, maybe there’s not. The one reason he can think of, the one person he had wanted to desperately to hold onto, was the one who had been holding the knife all along.

Unless he somehow rigged the blow, turned the knife in such a way that it should not kill him. Yes, that must be it! Hannibal would never _really_ hurt him so badly that it would kill him. Will wants to believe that, but the slick sensation of his blood and innards against his fingers tells him otherwise.

Will remembers learning in high school about medieval torture, styles of execution that could only have originated in the depths of hell. The English had used what was perhaps the most horrific method: after being hanged by the neck until nearly dead, the condemned was cut down. He was laid out on a table where he was ‘drawn’ - his stomach was slit and his organs pulled out before his eyes.

If the poor bastard wasn’t dead at that point, his head was cut off, and the rest of his body quartered. Maybe his head would be placed on a pike, his arms, legs and torso left out to rot in some public place to deter any other would-be offenders.

Had Will’s crime been so heinous? He found himself thankful that Hannibal hadn’t given him the full treatment. Surely he was familiar with all manner of torture and execution. Will had no doubt that he had given others the same treatment, and more. God only knew how many corpses had been stuffed in the good doctor’s freezer over the years. 

_Dear God . . . help me!_ Will hacked up a torrent of blood, the movement jarring his moribund body. The vestiges of his childhood faith came to the fore of his mind. “H-hail Mary, full of grace. . . the Lord is with thee. . .”

Will felt his eyes grow heavy. He was so tired. Suddenly, a hand pressed against his throat. _He’s alive! Hurry up and help me!”_ An oxygen mask was palced over his nose and mouth. He took one breath, and another, craving oblivion.

“H-holy Mary, M-Mother of God, pray for us sinners now. . .”

* * *

“. . .and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

Hannibal looked across the aisle, watching with mild interest as a young woman made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. The majority of the flight had passed without incident. It was only now, in the final hour of the flight, that they were experiencing mild turbulence.

Hannibal felt a strange touch of nostalgia at the words, once as familiar to him as breathing. Mother would be grieved to learn that he had given up the Church. How fortunate, then, that there was no God, no state of consciousness after death. There was no need to worry or care about his dead mother’s feelings. 

He briefly wondered how Will was doing, if he managed to survive. 

“Hannibal?” Bedelia murmured and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

He scowled, so severely that his companion gasped.

“Nothing at all,” he replied brusquely. “Absolutely nothing that is any of your concern.”

That settled that. Bedelia did not speak to him for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

The first time Will woke, he was alone. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was a soothing melody. He felt as though he was in some sort of dream, dark and misty. The blinds were drawn and there was no light in the room. He did not know if it was day or night.

All he could think about was losing Abigail. He had found her, so briefly, only to have her cruelly taken away from him again. He wondered where she was, how and if her body had been disposed of. She would have wanted to be buried near her mother, the poor girl.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t have. Will hoped that she never even entertained the thought of death in general, much less where she would be buried. He shivered, seized by an icy terror as he replayed the awful scene in his mind. For all he knew, Abigail could still be alive - not likely, of course, but it wasn’t the first time she’d had her throat slit.

Time passed. Will stared listlessly at the ceiling. He could call a nurse, he knew, but what would he say to her? _I want to see Abigail, where is she?_ No one would expect him to be awake. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to handle all the questions that would come, or the scrutiny of the press. He didn’t want anyone to speak to him about what had happened, didn’t even want to think about it. But thinking about it was all he could do.

_Where is Jack, and what about Alana?_ He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. What good had knowledge ever done him? Knowledge only ever led to sorrow. 

His morphine drip had almost run out. Pain engulfed him, as slow and steady as the tide. It left him stunned, gasping for breath. He closed his eyes.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, Will thought he must have been dreaming. The room was bright, the fluorescent bulb complemented by the sunlight filtering in through the window. He felt no more pain - his I.V. had been replenished - but he was startled by the sight before him: there was Hannibal, sitting at his bedside, reading.

His hair had been dyed blond, and he was wearing contacts that made his eyes appear blue. In place of his usual formal attire, he was wearing blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt. But it was _him_.

Silence stretched between them. Will held his stare until he was unnerved and cast his gaze to the wall. _”You,”_ he murmured, his throat hoarse. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Hannibal smiled coldly, baring his teeth like a savage beast. “Will. . .” he leaned forward to press his lips against Will’s cheek. They were cool and dry.

Will shuddered beneath the touch and began to cry. “You bastard!” he whimpered, his tone laced with brittle bitterness. There was more that he wanted to say, so much more. But he said nothing. Hannibal likewise seemed content with the silence. He did not speak, but clasped Will’s hand in his own, caressing the palm with his thumb.

It was his touch that hurt the most. Will stiffened and tried unsuccessfully to pull his hand free. Hannibal tightened his hold. He leaned his forehead against Will’s hand. His tone, when he spoke, was uncharacteristically strained:

“I understand that you are angry. I cannot fault you for that. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Why should I? You took _everything_ from me.”

“I am inclined to disagree. I did not take your life.”

“Not for lack of trying! Why are you here?”

Hannibal frowned, the corners of his mouth turned down in disgust. “I am here to assess you, to see how you are recovering. Do you doubt my sincerity?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Will took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he expected Hannibal to be gone, a figment of his feverish imagination. He was there, staring at him with a ruthless intensity. It was similar to the expression he wore as he stabbed the linoleum knife into his abdomen.

Will groaned, a sound that snapped Hannibal out of his reverie. He riffled Will’s gown, probing with gentle fingers until he had pulled the blue material up. He exposed Will’s stomach, the skin pale and supple - beautiful. There was a thick gauze bandage over the wound, slightly splotched red with blood. Will was distressed, and his stitches had torn. Hannibal traced his fingers around the gauze, a gesture that could almost be considered loving.

He thought of the surgical process. The surgeon would have first sanitized the wound and killed as much bacteria as he could, before meticulously sewing together the muscles and skin. Hannibal had carved four inches across his skin, immutably marking Will for the rest of his life. 

Hannibal came closer, lowering his face so that his eyes were level with Will’s. Slowly, lasciviously, Hannibal stuck out his tongue. He licked up and down the younger man’s abdomen, flicking his tongue into his navel. He moved further, laving the soft gauze, kissing the surrounding skin. He smacked his lips as if savoring a delectable delicacy.

Will’s moans urged him on. Hannibal pressed a finger to the gauze and exerted pressure. Will gave a choked sob, engulfed anew in agony. Mercifully, Hannibal moved away, trailing a line up from Will’s navel to his neck. He pressed gently against Will’s pulse point, reveling in how the pulse accelerated under his touch.

He tightened his hold, squeezing until Will gasped and choked. His blue eyes widened and his tongue protruded. “P-please,” he croaked. “Please d- _don’t!_

Hannibal complied, releasing his hold. Will’s breath came in starts and gasps. He coughed hoarsely, the movement wracking his body and exacerbating the pain in his stomach. He was low on morphine again.

Hannibal glanced at his wrist watch. “Well, Will, I would love to stay longer, but I have another appointment.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. He uncapped it and, before Will could protest, stuck the needle into his shoulder. Will hissed, and Hannibal shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips.

Whatever was injected into him had a swift effect. Will felt himself growing lethargic instantly. “What did you do to me?” His voice was little more than a whisper. Hannibal leaned down, kissed Will’s forehead, brow, and finished with a soft kiss on his lips.

“Just a little something to help you sleep. When you wake, you will not remember any of this.”

“W-wait -”

“Do not worry. This is not goodbye. I’ll be seeing you.”

The last thing Will saw before losing consciousness was Hannibal walking away. He was _always_ walking away.

“Take care, dear Will.”


End file.
